


Out of Touch

by simonlovelazy



Category: Mystic Messenger (Video Game)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Angst, Basically they share their senses, Bickering, Drugs, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, In Your Eyes AU, Inspired by film (In Your Eyes), Like really slow, MC has personality, Mentions of Violence, Mystery, Slow Burn, Swearing, Unreliable Narrator, good old Unknown, no spoilers for the Ray route, not too dirty though, occasional silliness, wink wink
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-26
Updated: 2018-10-12
Packaged: 2019-03-24 09:10:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13808073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simonlovelazy/pseuds/simonlovelazy
Summary: What will happen if suddenly the senses of two complete strangers get connected in the dead of night? It starts off  only with hearing the voice of the other in their heads, but with time they discover that they have much more in common.Saeran is gruff, insolent and seems to be entangled in some illegal business, and she already has enough problems on her own. Is there a chance that looking through the other's eyes, they will find their own place in the world?





	1. Persistence of Voice

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, Hello! If you miss the good old Unknown angst (with a dash of the supernatural) this may be the fic just for you! Enjoy~

* * *

 

She's never been good with words. She often wonders how writers, or for that matter even other students, manage to weave the sentences which exactly capture their ideas. She tends to rewrite one sentence a couple times before it manages to reflect at least a particle of her thoughts, and even then it feels unsatisfactory. It's this effortlessness that she lacks the most, and it’s not something that can be magically mustered under time pressure. 

            It is already 2 a.m. when MC pulls back her swivel chair, and grabbing a couple of empty, sticky mugs, goes for a refill. Strolls to the kitchen and back are her only breaks, and she tries to stretch every moment of not writing, use them to the fullest. She meticulously measures some dry, fragrant leaves, pours hot water. And there she is again, at her desk and before the almost empty, blotted here and there, sheet of paper. With the end of the term dangerously close, she really has to pull herself together, so she resists the urge to yawn and starts reading aloud the only paragraph of the essay that she has managed to write. Hopefully, she’ll find some unwelcome mistakes and fall into the rhythm of work.

            "In the light of the events of 19–"

            "Who's here?" an unfamiliar voice demands, accompanied by a clicking sound resonating ominously in her empty apartment.

            A shiver peels off the remnants of her drowsiness. Has some guy, a psycho-killer for sure, sneaked into her place? She starts up. She has to locate the owner of the voice, find some explanation. She carefully checks all the rooms, pulls the curtains, even squats to peek under her bed – there is no one in the apartment except for her and the clicking crescendo. It isn't an intrusive ad coming from her laptop, it’s not her phone either: she touches the screen where instead of an incoming call taken by mistake, a fluffy cat stares sheepishly back at her from the wallpaper.

            "Are you still here?" she asks, her own voice seems distant and weak in her ears.

            "Obviously."

            At this point, at this hour, there seems to be only one logical answer: a ghost. When Kath and her were looking for a flat to rent, her friend claimed that in this one she didn't feel any supernatural presence. On the other hand, eccentric as she is, it is not impossible for her to burn some incenses and conjure a spirit on some Friday night when there's nothing of interest on TV. And now with Kath out of the city,  MC has to deal with the ghost on her own. She’s slightly terrified and very sleepy, the previous burst of adrenaline having drained her completely, when she muses how to ask politely if the ghost is a poltergeist or more of a Casper kind of fellow.

            "Would you call yourself alive, or…?” wow, now that was diplomatic. “Are you the revengeful type?"

            There was a stop in clicking, followed by a squeak (of a chair?) "Erm, Saviour? Is that you?"

            What. The. Hell. Has this guy on the other end of the line lost his way after he died, and now he is trying to find a stairway to heaven? Or is she so sleep-deprived that she has started to hear voices which apparently have their own back story?

            Glowing numbers displayed on her phone announce the ungodly hour and the sleepiness wins the struggle with reason, "You know what, forget it. I wish you luck with whatever you're trying to achieve. Now, good night, Voice." She mumbles, turns the light off, and slips into the bed, not even minding to change into her pyjamas. If some crestfallen spirit decides to end her, then so be it.

* * *

 

Cold and stiff. He wakes up at the desk, apparently he hasn't even made it to his couch last night. He feels nauseous, the taste of cigarettes and sugar still on his tongue, the bitterness of the elixir still clenching his throat.

            Fuck! Is it really happening again? When he's just thought that he's finally getting better. That the Saviour cured him. That he's in control. Wasn't he supposed to be fully functioning and dependable after the yesterday's dose? But he looks at the monitor from behind the half-lidded eyes and he can't make sense of the information streaming down the screen, it's just green letters and numbers, too bright and too fast to mean anything. His head throbs, but this will pass, it always does. The real problem is if hallucinations come back, if he starts hearing voices all over again, and all that he's been working on, all the progress, it all turns to shit.

            Too exhausted to move, he half-lies at the desk with face nestled in his arms. A moment or maybe an hour passes when a loud knocking to the door  brings him back to his senses.

            “Come in,” he rasps out, sitting up straight and tilting his head in the direction of his guest.

            A believer standing in the threshold bows his head slightly. “Our Saviour is expecting you in the audience chamber.” Saeran is unsure if he even knows this disciple. There's been a wave of newbies lately, but he hasn't really had time to leave his workroom and wander around, meeting all these middle-aged businessmen and stock-market analysts.

            “Yes. You may leave now.” The hooded figure bows again and disappears behind the door.

            He stands up slowly, minding his dizziness. He has to tell the Saviour what happened last night, but it's no excuse to appear weak in front of her. He must pull himself together. Clenching his fists so tightly that nails dig in the insides of his hands, he feels a little bit more anchored in the reality and leaves the room.

            There's no windows in this part of the building, but the draught in the corridor allows for deeper breath. It's probably a late morning if the Saviour has some time to devote to him. He walks alone, but it doesn't feel like it. He can hear humming, not too harmonious if he has to be honest, and clear as if someone stood next to him. Or if someone hummed in his head.

            “It's you again?” he murmurs. He has to hurry, he can feel his fever growing. But he allows himself for a moment of weakness in the dim corridor. Shutting his eyes closed, he rests his forehead against the stone wall, welcoming its coldness.

            “Oh!” some rustling takes place of the melody. “I thought that I made it up. But you're here again! What are you?” Her uneven breaths whizz in his ears. The voice drops to whisper, “I'm going full-on crazy, huh.”

            He would snort if he had any energy left to do it. Why even the voices in his head have to be so fucking annoying? “That makes two of us, then.”

            “I can't do this right now. I don't have time for going nuts. I have exams,” the feminine voice babbles with a growing panic. “Great, and now I'm talking to myself.”

            Saeran could swear he catches a whiff of freshly brewed coffee and warmed up oil, the mixture of smells similar to that in the Mint Eye's cafeteria now causing a pitchpole in his stomach. He deepens the pressure of his head against the wall and pushes his nails even deeper into the flesh of his palms to cut the hallucinations off. “I don't have time either”, he breaths out, pushing himself away from the wall and reassuming his trudge down the corridor.

            The heavy, mahogany door stands wide open in front of him, but he knocks in its frame and waits patiently. On hearing the Saviour's invitation, her voice as sweet as ever, he enters and bows deeply before setting his eyes on the figure seated on the ornate chair. Her eyes glisten, and he can tell she's genuinely happy to see him.

            “My Saviour, I've heard you wanted to speak with me.”

            “Searan, I am so sorry that we could not meet earlier. It is a busy time with all these lost souls seeking  a safe haven among us, away from the corruption of the world. You have performed miracles with the scarce information I could provide,” she says, rising from her throne and slowly descending the steps, “I would never be able to accomplish this much without your assistance.”

            He lowers his gaze, a small smile of pride creeping on his face. He despises these new so-called believers who don't even stay here permanently, but only drop by when they need reassurance from the Saviour. But deep down he knows that their high positions and funds may be useful assets for the community and the Saviour wants nothing less than to help everyone, no matter how far gone they are. She's helped _him_.

            She cups his face, raising it just enough for him to see her warm smile. But when she speaks up, her tone is firm, “I never expect from you less than perfect because I know you would never disappoint me. You have greatly contributed to building the future paradise for all of us, and for that you deserve a reward.”

            One hand lingers on his cheek for a fraction longer before she turns away to grab something from the small table placed next to her throne. She seems to be nearing him slowly, almost ceremoniously, with the tablet cradled close to her heart. “The Mint Eye is ready for the next stage of its development, and more importantly, I believe that you have grown capable enough to carry out  the mission which is destined  for you. Your conscience will lead you, but please, feel free to consult the guidelines I have prepared for you,” she says, extending her hands and leaving the tablet in his own firm grip.

            He'll bring the RFA here, of course he will, but what he must do is to face Luciel and make Luciel face his crimes. Will the redhead look coldly with these yellow eyes of his into his own and admit with a strait face that he's left the burden behind to croak so that he could be finally free? Will he have the balls to admit to the gun barrel shoved in his face that it's been premeditated from the very beginning and he doesn't feel sorry for abandoning his brother for the sake of his own survival? Or will he beg, and whimper, and lie even more?

            He can't tear his eyes off hers. They hide sweet promise and unwavering trust, and his mission gains even more importance. He won't do it only for himself, it's a proof of gratitude for her.

“Thank you, my Saviour.” He feels hazy with excitement, but also his raising temperature grows harder to ignore. If he mentions all the fuss with his hallucinations, though, the Saviour may postpone the mission for his own good. But it can't happen. It won't. He's gone too far to be stopped by his own weakness. This voice must be kept secret even from the Saviour, he can cage it in his body, suppress it so well that even he will start to doubt its existence.

            He's about to turn on his heel to begin the preparations as fast as possible when the soft touch on his forehead stops him. “I can tell that the elixir affects your condition,” she says, her brows furrowing.

            Silence is one thing, but he can't lie to her now. He's all tensed up until he hears her verdict, “We may have reintroduced the cure too urgently. I will have a believer bring you a safe dose every other day and build it up, so you can reach your full potential when the time comes.”

            Physically he feels way worse than earlier, but the new determination adds energy to his steps. Closing the sun-drenched room behind him, he briefly looks down at the object in his hand and stops dead in his tracks, breathing in sharply. The scared and curious gaze reflected on the tablet isn't his own. This is bad. His hallucinations have never before looked back at him.

* * *

 


	2. And Green My Eyes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the nice comments on the last chapter! I'm sorry this one took me ages, but I had to really focus on writing my thesis. From now one, I'll update more often!
> 
> WARNING! This chapter introduces issues concerning serious ilness and hospitals. Please consider before reading if you are fine with these subjects. Also, note that the characters' attitude and tackling of these problems is far from perfect. 
> 
> Please, enjoy~

The artificial-lemon smell of cleaners and the squeaking of rubber soles making contact with the floor are all too familiar. MC wiggles on the plastic chair, changing her position for the umpteenth time since she's got here. Sometimes she kills time helping elders with their jigsaw puzzles or watching soap operas in the common room, but, honestly, it happens less and less often. She doesn't mind waiting as much as she used to. After all, it's not so hard to sit mindlessly for a while until she's allowed to come in. Only the stench of fake citrus storming her nostrils isn't getting any better.

            There aren't too many guests at this hour, so no one minds her jacket and backpack thrown on the neighbouring chairs. She probably should be killing time in some productive way – it feels like a waste to just stare at the closed door in front of her. MC considers diving into her pack and getting her notes to assuage the faint sense of guilt when someone stops in her view.

            "It's my favourite early bird, isn’t it!" a man announces with a growing smile. It's slightly disturbing that she's a favourite anything to a man she's passed briefly maybe three times in the hospital corridor. "What a shame to lose this crisp morning in a place like this."

            "It's fine, I'm waiting to see someone."

            "So do I, little bird! So do I...now, I should be going, I want to surprise my Lady with some beautiful flowers when she opens her eyes. Even though I suspect it's not a big surprise if I do it every day, am I right?"

            The man chuckles softly, and MC matches her warm smile to his. "I'm sure, she'll love them."

            "She was a florist, you know, but it was a long time ago. She loves narcissi to this day. I hope they make her feel a bit better about her broken leg."

            Maybe the elder isn't a creep after all, maybe he’s just talkative."I hope so, too."

            "What about you," he says rather than asks. The bouquet rustles in his hands as he's looking around. His gaze stops at letters stuck to the other side of the clear door. Squinting, he tries to make something out from the mirror image of the name of the ward. " _Right._ I think I've heard doctors talking about one patient here... it's not your relative by chance?"

            "I..." logically there's no way MC can know who the man is speaking about. On the other hand, if they're talking, it's probably about–"

            "That's tough. Really unpleasant... letting go never comes easily, and you're barely an adult."

            "I-I'm sorry, I don't know what you mean. I think you're talking about someone else."

            "Oh, if so then I am the one to be sorry. It's just that I see you here so often that I thought–"

            It's her turn to cut him short, but she makes an effort to sound friendly, "maybe you should go."

            The man is already reaching for the handle of the clear door when his gossipy side wins, "if you haven't heard, there is a girl around your age with a relative who's been in a vegetative state for months. They said she should let them pull the plug already, but she insists–"

            “Maybe you should go smother this lady with a pillow, y'know?” Only now she realises how cold it's got in the building. Or maybe it has nothing to do with this "crisp morning." Chill sensation sips into her body, sharpening her thoughts and tongue.

            The man turns to fully face her, seemingly more fazed by the interruption than her brusque suggestion itself. So MC pushes forward, acutely aware of every single word she utters, every sound being distinct and sated with intention, “just think about that money you'd save on the flowers.”

            The man obviously doesn't share her cool demeanour because his face assumes the colour of the stop sign. His lower lip twitches, but he says nothing. He’s just standing there for a while with the extended hand and a stupid expression plastered onto his wrinkled face.

            Then he scurries away without another word, his distorted figure growing smaller behind the smudgy door.

            This is also when another door opens. “You can come in,” says the chestnut head peeping out of the room. The nurse doesn’t hear MC’s greeting, too preoccupied with filling in the form, already rushing to another room.

            MC stands up and looks inside. Nothing’s changed. There’s certain calmness to this stagnancy. The beeping sound, the arrangement of cables, whiteness of the sheets – it’s almost assuring that they never change. But his condition hasn’t improved since he got here, too.

            But right now, it’s too calm to her liking. She hovers in the threshold, unwilling to come inside. The small accident with the stranger has left her hyperactive, willing to do something, and the thought of sitting in one place just watching as he’s lying there is unbearable. It’s awful to admit, but she can’t muster patience to do that.

            That he’ll be lying here tomorrow is as certain as that she’ll come here to visit. So she leaves immediately, ignoring the pang of guilt.

            Lady at the reception nods at MC as she walks next to her desk. There are some flowers placed next to the antiquated PC. It's just a blur of yellow and pink when the girl rushes in the direction of the exit – not that she knows anything on plants, or that she cares. The floral fragrance mixes up with the chemical odour of this place urging her to take a turn to the bathroom. To wash this place off her. This stench, this man, this whole situation.

            The bathroom is incomparably cooler than the rest of the hospital. A faint smell of cigarette smoke tells her that some nurses must have had a break not so long ago. She can name at least three of those who sneak out for a smoke often forgetting to close the window properly.

            She reminds herself that she’s not here to calm herself – she’s in perfect control. This rush of revolt from time to time is a good reminder to stand up for herself. Who’s gonna do it otherwise?

            MC’s just washing her hands. The water flows too quickly, sputtering onto the sleeves of her parka and the too long cuffs of her white shirt. She looks up to the mirror, and she's almost surprised that she isn't as surprised as she'd normally be. She barely flinches when instead of her reddened face the mirror shows her a silhouette of an unknown man.

            He must have been rushing somewhere, but he stops abruptly, spotting her from the corner of his eye at the exact moment when she notices him. After a second of motionless bewilderment, he comes closer to her, or rather closer to the other side of the mirror.

            He's somewhere outside: wind rustles his bleached hair, snowflakes fall on his pink streaks just to melt a second later. She's almost ready to convince herself that she's looking out of a window, but the familiarity of his mint eyes tells her otherwise.

            “You...” His voice is muffled by the mask covering his mouth and nose. Furrowing, he reaches to pull it off, but changing his mind in the last moment, his hand falls limply to his side. “Why can I see you?”

            “I wish I knew,” MC says evenly, but her heart’s beating somewhat faster than usually. All she knows is that something connected them that night, but does it really explain anything?

            “It's some kind of mental bond, maybe?” She feels the heat moving to her cheeks on saying that aloud. Well, at least it's a bit better than reminding him this time last week she took him for a ghost, right? But if two unquestionably undead people somehow find themselves talking to each other through the freaking bathroom mirror, then how are you supposed to name it, or even better – logically explain it?

            He doesn’t respond to her revelation. Actually, he comes off as a bit annoyed if his half-covered face can be any determiner.

            “Where are you?” he asks suddenly.

            “Welcome to the forbidden land of the ladies' room!” she answers, spreading her hands in an exaggerated gesture. As if this whole thing wasn’t weird enough.

            The stranger gives her a barely noticeable nod. He’s not screaming or running away, so it seems that both of them take this encounter in surprisingly well.

            But where is _he_? Wiping her eyes, she realises that there’s no need to ask. She looks around.

            Her vision is doubled, some other space superimposed on the tiles and cubicles. It’s a funny impression, a little bit as if she were drunk. The objects vibrate, not really physical, ready to transform into something else when she wills them to. Returning her attention to the mirror, MC crinkles her eyes experimentally. And it works, she’s facing her own image – wearing a notably silly expression.

            It's like changing the focus of a camera, really. She tries to sharpen the blurry background, and then, he appears in front of her once more. But now it's different than before.

            Somehow, she must be snatching a share of his senses because she's watching him from his own perspective. He's standing dumbfounded in front of an electronics shop, his figure reflected upon the window display. Surrounded by the blinking screens and gaudy posters announcing the seasonal sale, he seems too pale, almost transparent, as if threatening to disperse into the thin air. She's almost tempted to dub him an illusion, a dream, even to risk calling him a ghost once again. The green of his eyes, having imprinted itself on her memory the day she caught a fleeting glimpse of it, now strikes her as unnaturally vibrant, almost toxically so. It’s framed by the dark shadows carved deeply, maybe even permanently, in his skin.

            Her heart clenches looking at this stranger and his evident exhaustion. There’s also something else about him, more elusive, something a nap won't fix. But MC doesn't want to dwell on it for too long; it's almost too easy for her to waste time on lamenting problems which aren't even her own. Instead she asks, “what's with the mask?”

            “I've caught a cold,” he says, snapped out of his thoughts, probably having tried to make sense of all of this as well. There's a playful sparkle in his narrowed eyes, and she can tell he's making fun of her.

            “I wonder why,” MC retorts. There's no way his burgundy scarf, carelessly thrown on the too light, leather jacket, keeps him warm. In fact, she knows it doesn't. She can sense the bitter cold reaching beneath his clothes, the gooseflesh forming on her own forearms.

            “Aww, come on, don't be like that! You can see _my_ face!” she says to fill the silence, immediately regretting the last part. Before he can make any commentary on her looks, she adds quickly, “besides, it's not like I'm not sitting in your head already.”

            “It's not about you,” he says, automatically moving his head to scan his surroundings, looking for someone or something. It gives her a chance to look around as well: it's a street of a big city. Unfortunately there's nothing too distinctive, it might be anywhere in Korea. But it explains all miniscule sensations and impressions which now come to the forefront: the cacophony of sounds, flashes of colourful lights, and the occasional pressure on her back when some careless passer-by nudges her, as this boy, standing at the middle of a pavement, hinders the flow of the crowd.

            It's almost too much; the number of stimuli keeps growing, becoming overwhelming. The pounding in her head matches the rhythm of the passing cars. The new side of their bond-thingy confuses her, but she doesn't doubt its reality anymore. It’s as if the world was supposed to be like that, and this is the first time when she’s fully awake.

            Does he feel the same?

            “Do you think we can read each other's minds?” she asks after a pause when she grows accustomed to the whirling world.

            “Believe me, princess, you’d know if you could hear what I'm thinking right now.”

            MC doesn't see his expression, but she's sure as hell that her own eyebrows fly up to the sky. To think that she felt sorry for him a moment ago! “Asshole.”

            His phone starts chiming, and she jumps up a little on feeling the buzzing on her own thigh. Ignoring it completely, the guy focuses even more on searching the crowd with his eyes. MC's not sure, but it may be the sight of a blonde to the left that makes him finally stop. The targeted girl becomes smaller and smaller, heading away from them, and after a while all MC can see is the top of the navy beret sticking out in the sea of heads.

            He darts a brief glance at the window display and starts off in the same direction as the beret-girl. “Gotta go,” he says without sparing MC another look, already a couple steps down the road.

            “It was nice,” MC starts when he abruptly breaks their connection. “...seeing you.”

            Her voice echoes in the hospital bathroom. There’s something off about this guy, and she doesn't mean only his poor manners and more than obvious lack of social skills.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Saeran's POV!  
> What's this boy up to?


	3. Sometimes I Get Overcharged

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve been rewriting the heck out of this chapter, and I’ve kept adding subplots to the drafts, so it took ages to update. Also, I’ve written a quick Saeran-centred story in the meantime, so check it out if you want to. But hey, this chapter’s almost twice as long as the previous ones! I hope it reads ok, and I feel like the next chapter will be (even) more exciting, so please, bear with me!
> 
> Horizontal lines mark where the pov changes.

The backrest whines as Saeran is leaning back in his chair, blowing a slow, pleased wisp of smoke into the vent above his head. How many hours has he been on his feet? Twenty five or more? A prospect of the long night before him, or rather an early morning, isn’t a bad one, though. He cracks his neck and stretches out arms. This is what he’s been waiting for for so long. It’s finally started, and so far, it’s going pretty smoothly. If he manages to keep up the good work, he doesn’t mind the never-ending days at all.

            The goal is within the reach of his hand, he can almost feel it scrambling in his steady grasp. Once he really gets _him_ , he won’t let the chance crawl away. His Saviour says that getting a closure, and saying good bye to the past will help him to start over. But this doesn’t feel like waving his hand bye-bye. He’s been thinking about “getting his closure” since she took him in, he’s been tirelessly preparing the ground for it for the last days, and if anything, it feels like he can finally cut off the infectious limb. And before he disposes of it, he’s gonna take a good look. He’s almost at peace with a thought that it may be the last thing he’ll ever get to see.

            But now, prompts are flooding the screens, they’re the proofs of Luciel’s efforts to kick him out of the app. What must be a continuous stream of commands, fast and unmistakable, does not manage to threaten Saeran’s access to the messenger in the least. He drags on his cigarette almost reaching the butt. The other hacker’s struggling to merely regain the hold of his own source text. Luciel’s good, and it only makes the whole thing more gratifying.

            Saeran has given himself a head start, and a solid one. The RFA noticed the foreign presence only after he gave access to the app to the unaware mole and installed her in the apartment and in their lives in the most obvious way possible. But he had been there long before. Lurking like a shadow and changing app’s security systems from within. Making sure he had access to every, most useless, personalised feature of each member’s version of the app, so it would take days to get rid of him completely. And all he really needs is an outlook on chat rooms, access to the log, and this oblivious thing, Min-ji, doing her job.

            He’s responding to Luciel’s attacks leisurely. It’s mostly just a matter of running programs prepared in advance, with little adjustments. But it doesn’t mean there’s not a shitload of other work to do. He has to extract as much data while he’s at it, he has to keep the Mint Eye running, he has to make sure that Min-ji is being a good girl who doesn’t sniff around too much.

            He returns his gaze to his phone just to see more bubbles in the chat room which has been going for what must be a solid half an hour. This girl deserves a prize solely for putting up with Yoosung’s bullshit, especially ‘cause it’s well after midnight. This is the worst part of surveillance. Saeran must read everything, every shitty detail of their little lives, see every emoticon, and eavesdrop on as many phone calls as possible.

            Yoosung’s now trying to sell to her what a great guy he is, telling her that he doesn’t care for looks while not so long ago him and that thesp begged for her photo in their very first chat room. Saeran doesn’t need camera in their apartments to tell they were swooning over their phones after she’d finally agreed. But she says “you’re too cute” and the irony of the situation is completely lost on her. That’s how blindly trusting she is. Perfect.

            Saeran puts the phone away and projects the chat room on one of the more distant screens just to keep an eye on it. He focuses on the grainy footage from the apartment. Thankfully, Min-ji’s just lying in her bed, completely engrossed in the chat. She may be naive as a lamb, but she’s unfortunately just as cowardly. She became dangerously fidgety some hours ago after she’d heard the door of the apartment clicking after her. If the RFA hadn’t helped her to calm down, she’d have ruined everything. She found out about impossibility to leave apartment way too soon for his liking and her own good. Thankfully, she seems mostly fine now, considering the circumstances. Saeran decided to monitor her just as a precaution, it’s just in case she’s suddenly about to do something reckless. But seeing her flirting with the RFA mere minutes from her imprisonment, he’s sure she won’t be sniffing around or trying to run for it and activate a fucking bomb.

            With this little exception, she’s otherwise a perfect mole. The Saviour has really thought about everything. Even to him some of her directions only now start to make sense. Picking a target who remotely resembles her? Genius. Half of the RFA already sees Min-ji as a “new Rika,” and in two days, all of them will be ready to willingly go through fire and water for her. She became a party coordinator before she got the chance to properly introduce herself.

            Even though Saeran’s completely focused on the tasks at hand, some small, unoccupied part of his mind wanders freely without his control. For some reason he keeps catching his thoughts drifting to a different girl he met hours ago. It’s beyond him why waste time on her at all, but since it doesn’t distract him from work, he lets it slide for now.

 

\- —O— -

 

It’s long hours later when exhaustion gets to him. According to the schedule he won’t get any elixir today, and he still can’t call it a day just yet. He’s glad he has accumulated some of it in advance, knowing that he might need an additional boost of energy in between the portions sent by the Saviour.

            Saeran empties a vial of a size of eye drops in one swing and shakes his head as the fluid burns its way down his throat. It kicks in right away. Just enough to keep him conscious and concentrated. The emptied vessel lands back in the desk drawer from which he then pulls out an unopened cigarette pack.

            He checks the newly opened chat room. Jumin seems to warm up to the new member of the RFA. The camera, conveniently installed by Luciel, doesn’t show anything concerning either – Min-ji makes some mess preparing breakfast, but none unnecessary cabinet is opened, leaving the secrets of the apartment safe for now.

            Saeran turns his attention to another screen and runs a macro of his defence sequence against the hacker. He then moves on to his habitual check of the Mint Eye’s security systems when –

            “Hello?” a familiar voice murmurs in his ear, “Am I doing this right? Can you hear me?”

            “What you want?” he asks. He sounds loud in the usually silent workroom.

            “I can’t even call you? What’s the point of having superpowers if you can’t even check on your buddy once in a while?”

            The more he ignores her, the more effort she puts in trying to reach out to him. She’s friendly in this infantile, annoying way resembling the clowns from the RFA. She’d fit with them just right, maybe even better than the one he chose for them. She’d be easier to control, too. But instead she’s trying to befriend _him_. Would she be so nice if she knew who he is, what he does? He smirks at the thought. Of course fuckin’ not.

            But at the same time, he’s growing curious. Being wired to someone like that could be useful here, in the Mint Eye. With her, working from the outside, all happy and open, they could get to people no one can from here, she’d convince and recruit them in a blink of the pitying eye. This would please the Saviour. And maybe, with him commanding straight to the girl’s ear, this place would become the refuge it’s meant to be, peopled by those who really treat it as a shelter, not another investment.

            Abrupt scratching behind his eyeballs informs him that she’s trying to plug in to his sight, too. He makes a quick decision. If it’s supposed to work out, she can’t see any of this. She can’t know of the Mint Eye. Not yet.

            “Stop it! Get out of there!” He makes sure to restrict her access only to the hearing, surrounding the rest of his senses with something resembling a firewall.

            “First, you don’t show your face, and now you won’t even let me look around? You’re all about that aura of secrecy, aren’t you?” He hates her casual attitude, her acting like she knows him. He takes a deep breath and reaches for an ashtray, already filled to the breams. Where did he put the damn pack?

            She can be useful. Be nice. It may pay off in the end.

            “Mhmm,” he hums affirmatively. If he doesn’t discourage her rambling, he may pick up on some useful information about her.

            It’s even easier than he’s thought as the girl doesn’t seem to be concerned about her privacy at all. She lets him hear, see, smell, taste and feel everything around her. Or maybe she’s too careless or unskilled to block him out. She’s standing behind some sort of a counter, her fingers gliding through crumpled bills, as she organises them in a cash till. There’s a yellow note stuck to it, saying “remember to propose joining our loyalty programme!” with a smiley face drawn by the same shaky hand. In the area which must be invisible from the front lies her phone, a chipped mug, and some pens. The air is heavy with the bitter smell of burned coffee beans.

            “Thought you’re a student,” he says, no longer interested in paying attention to her surroundings. He changes access passwords to the rooms which require his manual approval and skims through the Mint Eye’s CCTV live footage, all while keeping the girl's vision out of it. He sees believers unpacking boxes in the food supply area, then he observes some new disciple losing his way in hallways – his struggle appearing on different cameras as he tries to find his way out of the maze. He sees those making their bed in the communal sleeping area, and those who think they are alone in their exclusive, single rooms, recorded all the same through the smaller, better hidden devices.

            “You actually listen sometimes?” she laughs breathily. “I can’t believe you picked up on that.”

            Saeran scans room by room mechanically tapping the same key when he registers something out of ordinary in a feed he has already clicked away. He comes back to the camera and notices it’s one of the private bedrooms, more precisely, the room nr 97. Sure enough, there’s a small box under the bed, sloppily concealed with a piece of cloth. It wasn’t there yesterday when Saeran did his rounds. He bets his ass, it contains some personal shit, maybe a family photo or a mobile. None of these are allowed for believers, but some privileged assholes think they can miraculously get away with them. He’ll have to pay this one a visit in person, then.

            “Lots of students work,” she says like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, completely interrupting his train of thought. He supposes she’s right, but he doesn’t say it.

            “Aren’t you a student?”  she continues. Why is she so nosy? Probably, he can give this much away.

            “I already know everything I need to excel at my job.” He doesn’t make an effort to hide the pride in his voice.

            “How humble. And this job you’re so great at is…?” She presses on. Her words are partially drown out by a ring of a bell and the patter of closing in steps, but she doesn’t seem to notice any of it.

            “It’s what I can’t focus on because you keep talking!”

            “You know what? she whisper-yells, “we don’t have to love each other, but I’m at least trying to be nice to you because –  news flash –  this is how it’s gonna _—_ “

            “Excuse me, miss... MC?” She drops money she’s been rumpling in her hands and rises her eyes at the customer.

            So she has a name. That’s something.

            Saeran actually stops working just to experience, nearly first-hand, her overwhelming discomfort at being caught talking to “herself.” “Haha, it’s just my stupid little brother. The kid needs some scolding to behave properly,” she says, picking up her phone from the counter and waving it, her flush warming its way onto Saeran’s cheeks as she comes with a lame excuse. “I’m really sorry about this. Erm, good morning, what’s for you?”

            When the man in the expensive-looking suit asks about available options of lactose-free milk, changing his order at least three times, Saeran can’t help but interject, “I dearly hope we’re not related in any way.”

            She tightens her lips, struggling to ignore him and to take the order properly. Distracting her like that is almost... enjoyable.

            “Is that all?” she asks, a customer service smile stretching on her face.

            After the businessman pays and leaves hurriedly with his drink, glancing at his gold watch, Saeran speaks again, “You smiled any wider there, you would’ve damage some facial nerve, princess.”

            “It’s called being nice. You should try it.” She puts her phone to her ear, probably as a cover for the future, and runs her fingers through her bangs, huffing. It may be a side-effect of the elixir, but the sensations from her side of the line are more vivid than the last time. Her hair tingles his finger pads. Saeran shakes his head.

            “I don’t waste pleasantries on those who don’t deserve’em. How’s it with you? You’re only so _nice_ ,” a word slithers off his tongue like a venomous snake, “to the clients, or guys with money, in general?”

            He’s well aware how it sounds. In all honesty, she strikes him more as someone who’d wish a good day to her own executioner, but the remark earns him the expected results. More or less.   

            She does get angry, but this time she’s not yelling. When she finally speaks, it’s through the clenched teeth, “If you don’t intend to honour me with pleasantries – that’s fine – but don’t think I’ll put up with you like this. We can end this here and now if you want to.”

            “Wait!” He’s suddenly scared she means it. Maybe not _scared_ , it’s that he’s just discovered how to use her, and he’s already wasted time on her anyway... “Let’s start over, _MC_.”

            His fake remorse must be working because MC pretends to be deliberating his proposal, curling a strand of her hair on her index finger.

            “Fine,” she says finally.

            “But this?” she asks with a triumphant smile, dodging her name tag with the finger freed from her lock, “Just a nickname. You can call me that, though. Your turn.”

            “My turn to what?”

            “Normally when people meet each other, they exchange their names, no? Or should I just call you ‘This Jerk in My Head?’”

            Ok, so she’s not _that_ nice. At least not to him. It almost makes things a little less unbearable. But not to the point to give her his real name, it’s not a fucking option. She won’t find anything even if she looks him up, but he’s not gonna risk it for someone like her.

            He’s about to introduce himself with a random name when a cheerful sounding emoji brings his attention to the RFA app. This should work just fine.“Just call me Unknown.”

            “How original.” She hides her laughter. Poorly. “But no, no way. Not gonna happen. My friends actually call me MC! I’d like to see people who _know_ you address you as _unknown_.”

            The whole conversation might be even entertaining for a moment there, but now his patience is wearing thin. He feels the desk looking for a stranded cig, and finally finding one, puts it in his mouth. “You’re not MC, I’m not Unknown, seems like a fair deal to me,” he mumbles, lighting it up.

            “Fine.” The word is half-said, half-coughed out, as she starts to choke uncontrollably. “The hell?! Just what you think you’re doing?”

            “Not a fan of nicotine, huh?”

            “To put it mildly. Just don’t do it when I’m here, ok?”

            “I’ll keep it in mind,” he says after a pointedly long drag. “But I can’t promise I–”

            “I don’t remember giving you a break, MC.”

            Two pairs of eyes shoot in the direction of a women in her mid-thirties, who’s standing in the threshold to the backroom with her arms folded. “I bet it’s a lovely chit-chat, but maybe finish it off when it’s your actual free time?”

            MC sends him an unhappy smile and cuts off their connection.

            Only when he’s alone in the almost perfect silence the realisation comes to him. How did MC know he was smoking if he’d cut off her access to all his senses except hearing? He didn’t even notice when she crept in. Is she getting a hang of the connection or hasn’t he been cautious enough? It’s a bad news either way.

 

* * *

 

MC’s cleaning a table, scrubbing the dirt with a cloth harsher than it’d be necessary even if the table were dirty to begin with. It’s still a morning and the majority of clients take their coffee to go, forgetting their change in a hurry, still stupid with sleep. There’s no real need to tidy up, but it’s better to pretend to do something than appear to be slacking off. She’s already got one lecture from her boss on efficiency and maintaining the good name of the coffee shop, thank you very much.

            MC keeps scrubbing the same spot. She used to pray for a miracle, something to come onto the Earth and help her. Nothing. And then, when her life’s still far from perfect, but she’s somehow managing, something out of this world happens. And it’s _so_ pointless. The guy is weirdly wary of his privacy to the point where it’s a miracle to get any serious answer from him. She doesn’t think she’s got any by now. She’d bet he was about to cut her off at least three time as they spoke, and it’s after she’d made an effort to take as little of his sensations as possible. And just like the time before, the only outcome of their “conversation” is a mixture of annoyance and disappointment.

            And there is another thing. Not really her problem, but it itches her uncomfortably. He seems to be dealing with something, she saw it the last time, and felt it earlier today when he intoxicated himself with nicotine like there was no tomorrow. So what? Why would she care? Everyone is going through something, and so is she. It’d be terribly unfair if the whole connection ordeal was meant to help _him_. She doesn’t deserve it. Hell, he doesn’t deserve it.

            The bell rings again, and she puts a smile on even before a figure at the door becomes a recognisable person.

            “Oh, my,” MC starts, wiping her palms on the pristine apron and adding some sincerity to her plastic smile, “if that’s not my favourite customer!”

            A short-haired woman in a stiff two-piece greets MC formally, following her to the counter.

            “The usual, or do you want something extra today?”

            “Americano to go, please,” she says, automatically pulling out the exact amount of money. “Actually, make it double.”

            “A long day?” MC asks, looking at the clock for the dramatic effect, “already?”

            The woman takes off her glasses and wipes them, breathing out heavily. “A line between your private time and professional life is a blurry one if your boss appreciates your hard work a little too much.”  

            “I can’t imagine bringing work to my home,” MC says, offering a sorry glance from behind the coffee machine. “Your boss is a dick, and you need a rise, that’s what I say.”

            “He is not a... that.” She gives the bridge of her nose a final pinch before putting the glasses back on. “He is just, well, himself. And he _is_ very considerate when it comes to the salary.”

            “Money’s not all that matters.”

            MC puts a lid on the paper cup and turning, almost loses her balance, surprised by a sudden wave of dizziness. She hazily notes that the woman says something, but it’s as if she spoke from under the water, and not stood merely three steps away. MC tries to close the distance with a sense that there’s something she’s supposed to do, liquid hotness spilling on her left hand. Then, it’s just a pain in the back of her head, sharp and dull, before everything becomes completely still.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you think that the last scene gives off that “Johnny - you’re my favourite customer” vibe it’s because I love referencing art.
> 
> Next chapter: What's going on with MC? Some answers and even more questions!


	4. That’s When You See Sparks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos to all of my amazing readers who still stick around! I'm very grateful for the attention the story's getting, I appreciate every and each of you devoting your time to comment and (even if you can't tell because I'm terrible when it comes to replying) I treasure your remarks and read them more times than I'm willing to admit. <3  
> I had a good time writing this chapter, and I hope it doesn't disappoint you!
> 
>  
> 
> !!WARNINGS: child abuse, mentions of suicide!!

  
“Does any of your relatives suffer from a heart disease or is known to lose consciousness regularly? Has this happened to you before?”

            The shade of omnipresent white is slightly different from the one in the hospital MC’s used to visiting. They may look the same at first glance, MC muses, but the hue in here is warmer, resembling watered-down beige. A groan escapes her mouth as she raises her head from the pillow, shifting her eyes from the ceiling to the doctor’s face.

            “I don’t think so, no,” she says and pauses. It has indeed happened once before, and she knows the reason why. Somewhere between her transportation from the ambulance to the room they’d let her to lie down in, she connected the dots. The explanation would hardly satisfy the doc, though.

            “I think I’ve overworked myself, that’s it,” she says instead. “I’ve been juggling work and studies, and with the exams coming and the extra shifts – I might’ve overdone it.”

            The furrow between the doctor’s bushy eyebrows doesn’t smooth out. He scribbles in his notes attached to a clipboard.

            “Didn’t sleep well. Or eat,” she adds, and he nods, putting it down.

            “The exhaustion and stress may be the reason, yes. We still have to run some tests, just a quick CT scan to make sure you didn’t get concussion from hitting your head, and then if you still feel as good as you have claimed, you’re free to go.” He looks up from his notes, and MC is surprised at the warmth radiating from behind his thick glasses. Even though she technically hasn’t lied, she feels guilty of hiding the truth.

            “Wait here until the nurse comes to take you to the x-ray room. And, please, take better care of yourself from now on.”

            He clicks his pen a few times, smiles reassuringly, and then, he’s gone. It’s the first time she’s left alone to fully make sense of today’s events. Alone, save for the two other women resting in their beds, the one nearer MC engrossed in a home decor magazine, the other one snoring with her mouth agape.

            “Pssst! Hey, are you in there?” MC’s trying to reach the annoying tenant in her head, but it feels different than when he’s simply blocking her out. This time, it’s like he isn’t even there. She’s almost sure he’s the one who really blacked out, but it can’t be possible he’s out of it this long, right? Her eyes wander across the cracks in the ceiling, as she does her best to attune her senses to his, to find a trace of his presence buried deep within her. She summons up his indifferent and sometimes straight up arrogant manner of speaking, his sickly complexion and under eye circles, but she fails altogether to summon him.

            “Can you hear me?” She tries again.

            A snort. MC turns in the direction it came from as on cue. She catches the girl from the bed next to hers lazily turning her gaze back to the article at hand. The glossy, folded magazine is immediately held up to hide the neighbour’s smile, but the raise of her perfectly plucked-out eyebrow still betrays her amusement with MC’s shenanigans.

            “Hit your head pretty bad, huh?”

            MC pretends not to hear that, but her cheeks probably betray the truth anyway. She rummages through her pockets, hissing when the freshly bandaged up hand brushes against the denim. Her phone’s nowhere to be found. If only she could be the one worrying about picking a fitting sofa for her cosy living room!

            It’s hard to say how long will it take before the nurse comes for her, and she’s not the kind of person who intently disobeys the doctors’ instructions, but she’s determined to check on Unknown in peace. MC wills herself to stand up. She didn’t lie to the doctor when she’s got here—she’s mostly fine now—she’s holding to the wall as a precaution when she’s slowly going in the direction of one of the doors.

            “I don’t think you should get up in your state. But you _should_ tell the doctor you have an imaginary friend.”

            “Well, my imaginary friend needs to pee,” MC deadpans, “so, if you’ll excuse us—”

 

\- —O— -

 

 _There’d better be good reception in the hospital toilets by a rule_ , MC thinks dryly.

            It’s sweltering in the small room without any window to let the fresh air in. She puts the toilet seat down and forgets to sit on it.

            “The weird guy?” She tries again, her voice clearer without the audience. “Unknown?”

            Again, she’s met with nothing. It’s really not like him to ignore her for so long.

            “Wake up, you asshole! It’s not funny anymore.”

            Her muddied ankle shoes are leaving smudges of dirt on the wet floor. She’s not sure when she’s started pacing around.

            She opens her mouth to call him names, but a foreign sound breaks in. He breaths in with gluttony of someone who’s been under the water for too long. His gasping for air turns into panting, cold sweat rolling down his forehead. The poor guy must be completely disoriented because he doesn’t even attempt to guard his senses. It’s almost completely dark where he’s at, but judging by the cosy softness around him, she guesses he’s in bed.

            She plops down with relief. “Are you ok?”

            He sits up and spins his head, looking around. Finally, something he finds in this shadowy room must dissipate his confusion because his breathing somewhat evens out.

            “What’s happened to you?” she asks.

            His eyebrows furrow like he’s trying to figure it out too.

            “Nothing. Just dozed off.” The answer is uneven and sharp at the edges, but it’s hard to tell if it’s because he’s just got up, or he’s annoyed with her again. Probably both.

            “Cut the bullshit. Are you in a hospital or what? What’s going on?”

            He lets out a vaguely amused puff of air through his nose. Well, for her, there’s nothing funny in any of it. “I’m at my place.” And then his lips perk up in the unmistakable shape of mockery. “My _bed_ , if you’re _that_ curious.”

            “You blacked out! Have you been out of it until now? And why are you home? Does it happen often? Why no one called for ambulance? Are you living alone?” she can’t make sense of it, and she has to know. The last time he fainted, she thought she was dying. Today it got pretty damn close to it. What’ll happen the next time?

            “Not your fucking business.”

            “Not my bu—are you kidding me? I finished up in the hospital because of your ‘dozing off!’ I almost cracked my skull open!” she yells, but commotion behind the door reminds her where she is.

            “I’m pretty fucking sure it’s a very my business,” she finishes, more quietly.

            “You’re wrong. Nothing happened to me. Not today, not ever,” he lies. She knows he’s lying. There’s a little too much emphasis on the words, like it wasn’t just her that he’s trying to convince. He’s staring to the side, and she with him, but the room stubbornly remains a collection of shapeless objects. Little dots of red, white, and occasional blue are the only source of light. Some of them flicker, other are static; they bathe the planes and curvatures in an alternating pale glow, making the room a textbook example of eeriness.

            He works with computers—that much she’s managed to deduce so far from the snatched bits and pieces of his sensations. He’s great at this—that’s probably an overstatement, but coming from the guy himself. And now the colourful lights betray the sleeping mountains of hardware and electrical goods in a place he calls his own. It’s more than anyone, even the biggest computer nerd, would ever need for his own use. Against her will, an image appears in front of her: Unknown working as a shop assistant at electronics’ or as video surveillance monitor, maybe in a factory or a supermarket; working overtime, basically living there to sustain himself. Or maybe there’s nowhere else he could go after he finishes his shift, maybe he washes his teeth in the bathroom for staff, and eats supper at the desk. Maybe he has nothing, and no one is there to help him out. Suddenly she sees his self-confidence and brusqueness for what they may really be: a facade and a way to keep it up.

            But when the vision unravels itself in front of MC’s eyes, she knows better than to let a pang of sympathy take control over her. Still angry with him, she shoos the unwanted feeling away as quickly as it appeared, reminding herself what is the main reason for stalling Unknown.

            “Maybe it’s just you,” he continues, now with a hint of meanness. Sweat is trailing down his face, and he harshly wipes it with his hands. He slicks his wet hair back just to ruffle it back down. “Don’t pull me into this. I don’t care. Go away.”

            “No, wait!”

            There’s knocking at the door. “Miss? Are you ready for the examination?”

            “I’m coming! Just a sec!”

            “I don’t have much time,” she whispers feverishly to Unknown. “But I’ll contact you right after they discharge me. I think I know why we got connected. You have to listen to me one last time. Do it, and you never hear from me again if that’s what you want. Deal?”

            “Whatever.”

\- —O— -

 

The brisk wind tangles her hair when she finally gets outside. MC recognises the neighbourhood—it’s not far from the cafe, so pulling her hood up, she starts in the direction of her bus stop. Greeted by a view of a crowd, tightly covered from heads to toes with padded jackets and woollen scarves, thronging under the roof to hide from the plummeting down heavy clumps of snow, she decides to step by the park nearby instead of joining the party.

            Cords of turned off lights are swaying over her head on the otherwise barred branches when she strolls down the path. To her, the park is lifeless and unimpressive despite the efforts and funds the city council put this year in creating a festive atmosphere in the green areas of Seoul. It’s just too early—for the lights to illuminate the still pale sky, for the snow to stay intact long enough to hide the sparse grass with its shimmering blanket. But it seems enough for other saunterers to get into the spirit of Christmas; brandishing their shopping bags, they outwalk her, trotting with excitement.

            MC retrieves a tissue from her backpack which she’s got back with her phone and everything intact in it during the discharge and swipes it across a damp bench. Only after sitting down and taking a deep breath, she tries to contact him.

            “We can talk now,” she says simply. She’s no longer panicking, nor is she angry. She doesn’t feel anything in particular when she’s tearing the tissue to shreds, waiting for him to respond.

            “Yes.” It’s no surprise that this time his walls are up again, high and impenetrable. “Did you really get hurt?” he asks. It’s the first time he utters concern for someone else than himself, and she wishes even more than before that he wouldn’t cut her off from his senses just yet.

            “They quickly put me back together,” she says, waving her left hand, the dressing somehow already greyish and dingy. Making him feel guilty seems counterproductive now that it’s her last chance to convince him to cooperate.

            He doesn’t respond to that.

            “Listen,” she starts, “the way my body reacted today to whatever was happening to you at that moment, it reminded me of something. This had already happened to me—to us, I guess—before. This bond, connection, whatever you call it, it’s nothing new.”

            Still nothing. She’s not even sure if he’s still listening. Has she been wrong, after all? No, it must be it. It must be him.

            A lanky girl, dragged on a leash by her huge, fluffy dog, locks her eyes with MC. She smiles weakly, waiting for them to disappear behind the corner before she speaks again.

            “I... I know something bad happened to you five years ago.” She looks intently at the remnants of the tissue reduced to a wet pulp in her shaking fingers. “Someone hurt you.”

            “What?” His reaction is both rapt and unsure. The short word is packed with a range of emotions she’s never detected in his voice.

            “I don’t know what exactly happened, but it was horrible. I know it because I was there. I felt it, too.”

            Nothing.

            And then, a shrill, hysterical laughter blows up in her skull. The sound carries neither joy, nor happiness; it’s a hollow expression of his long suppressed pain she doesn’t fully understand, but the emotion is not completely unfamiliar. She recognises the bitter aftertaste of what he let her sample, fleetingly, all these years back.

            “‘twas you?” he spits out in between spasms, “I thought that... that maybe... so fucking stupid! I really thought—”

            Her skin prickles. She wants to say something, but her mind goes blank.

            When MC finally reacts, it’s not on instinct; it feels too forced, too weird to be one. Freeing her hand from the stretched out sleeve of her coat, she reaches out and pats on her own shoulder. Her palm lingers there, a thumb moving in slow, stroking motions, as she wills Unknown to calm down. _Breathe in. Breathe out. Repeat. It’s fine._

            It becomes increasingly clear that he can’t control himself, not to mention the bond. A glow of monitors blinds her and disappears before she can make out what’s on the screens. A stale smell comes and goes as if it were carried by the gusts of wind. Only one of his walls falls down completely. Their senses of touch tangle up, never quite merging into one, still separate, discernible. He’s shaking beneath her hand.

            So she was right; it was him and he remembers it, too. She thinks back to something she’s hoped was just a bad dream, a memory gathering dust in the forgotten corner of her soul. A horrid time when she was still just a teenager. A week of dragging nights when the sound of constant crying kept her up. She was hearing it night after night, and at some point she joined the wailing when the terror and exhaustion proved to be too much.

            ‘Don’t be scared. It’s just cats on the street. You know how they are in spring,’ her dad said when she complained. That night she used earplugs, but they didn’t mute the noise in her head.

            Around Friday, the things got real bad. There was the stinging on her wrists without any trace of redness, there was the sudden, paralysing fear of the darkness, and the inexplicable moments of terror when she just couldn’t breathe. Her father was doing extra shifts those days, and she had no heart to worry him more. He was just so awfully tired. Even if she’d considered it, there was nothing she could show him when he came back home late in night, no evidence of harm, no explanation for the pain she felt.

            It was on the weekend—she remembers because her dad was home—when she blacked out. _Something_ had squeezed up her throat harder than before.

            After that, everything happened quickly. By the next Wednesday the specialist she talked the things through with, explained it had been all in her head. It wasn’t hard to believe—pills worked better than any earplugs ever could. Within a month, she managed to lock the memory in a box and hide it as if it had never existed. The problem never resurfaced. Neither the need to reconsider it. Even when the events of today have forced her to remember, she considered the memory almost impersonally, just a difficult topic which has to be brought up.

            But it was never her box, not entirely. They had to open it together.

            “I believed—I was convinced— ‘twas the bond he told me ‘bout...” His laughter’s dying out, but he still speaks with difficulty, choking on the words, “...the twin bond. That even after he left, after everything, he still—”

            The time passes, but he never finishes his thought.

            “Unknown?” his face twists at that. MC’s been obviously right; no one calls him this way. After getting his attention, she has nothing to say to him. There was some motive for this whole conversation, but she can’t quite remember what was it. She feels so, so sorry for him, but also thankful and angry at the same time. He, somehow, started it all.

            She’s too scared to ask what exactly happened back then. She’s afraid of his reaction, but even more, she’s terrified to hear his side of the story. What could possibly happen to a teenage boy that caused him such an immense pain that even a fraction of it threatened her sanity?

            “You have a twin?” she decides to ask, using the calmest voice she can muster.

            “No.”

            “But you used to?” she guesses.

            She takes the silence for a ‘yes.’ Is that why...?

            “You talk to him, too?” he asks, his voice back to its calm norm. Somehow it creeps her out more than his breakdown. He seems more distanced than ever before.

            “What? No. I didn’t even know you have—had—a brother,” she says in earnest.

            Whether her answer satisfies him, she’s not sure. It’s obvious that the subject is sensitive, but she can’t tell why. Does he miss him? Probably, it’s his twin after all. But why this person is no longer here in the first place?

            “This March. Was that you?” The same detached voice.

            The inside of her mouth gets really dry. “Mhm.”

            “Of course,” he snorts without a trace of good humour, shaking his head in disbelief. “Of course it was you. Who died?”

            She knew the question was coming, but it doesn’t make things any easier.

            “My dad. But he didn’t—” She swallows. “It’s not important, now. You were there, too, right? When this happened.”

            He nods. He doesn’t ask anything more about March. Perhaps, there’s no point. He was there, so he must’ve felt enough to have a rough idea about how things were, just like she can guess that the harsh hands which tried to choke him belonged to someone close to him.

            “Kath—my roommate, that is—she said a good spirit was taking care of me. It kind of annoyed me at the time, but she wasn’t all that wrong after all, so,” MC’s aware of her babbling, but it doesn’t mean she knows how to stop it. “It’s hard to explain, but I felt _lighter_ , like I wasn’t alone. I mean, if anyone, you’d know what I’m talking about. So, thanks. Not that you had a choice.”

            “I didn’t do anything.”

            It didn’t feel like nothing. Back then, she had no clue what it was, who it was, but he eased her pain a little. He took some of the burden on himself.

            “You did enough, you know. We couldn’t do more for each other even if we wanted.”

            Maybe if Unknown weren’t such a reserved guy, he’d confirm that her presence had been at least a little bit comforting, too. He’d assure her that that horrible week wasn’t completely pointless.

            But that’s not what he’s like, and he changes the subject without any attempt at subtlety, “You said you know why we’re like this.”

            She raises her hand from the awkward position on her shoulder and absently scratches behind her ear.

            “Well, erm, we got connected for a time in the past when something... major happened in our lives and, sort of, endured it together,” she says.

            From the start, she had nothing more to announce to him other than her realisation about their previous ‘meetings.’ But he can’t leave now. It’s not that she suddenly wants to drop everything and rush to wherever-the-hell-he-is to help him. Not at all. She must convince him to stay because as little probable as it may be, there is a chance he can be useful. After all, he appeared when she lost her father, so why wouldn’t his presence now mean she’s getting him back? The doctors say his recovery is nearly impossible, but then again, the connection throws the whole notion of impossibility out of window. Why not treat this as the miracle she’s been waiting for?

             If her dad wakes up, she can even bend her rules. Why not? She can go and do everything in her power to help Unknown in return, especially, considering the hell he’s been through. Even if, at the start, he’s not going to be happy about any of it.

            But, God, please, help her father first.

            “But now it’s different, the connection is more powerful, so maybe we have to support each other more... actively,” she finishes lamely.

            “Very precise.” He clicks his tongue. “You think we’ll be free again when we’re done?”

            The thought hasn’t really crossed her mind before, but there was over 4 years of radio silence between them. After the worst suffering passed, she no longer felt his presence, and probably it had been the same for him. There’s no reason why it should be different this time. Maybe the prospect of getting rid of her in the future will be a kick of inspiration for Unknown to cooperate for once. “Probably.”

            “Tell me this, princess, ‘cause I’m really dying to know: what exactly d’you expect me to do? I don’t really have time for any support group bullshit.”

            “I want to believe everything that happens to us has a purpose.” He raises an eyebrow, clearly not impressed. At least she has his attention. “Yeah, I know how it sounds. But listen, maybe if we meet up in real life, maybe we can figure—“

            “No.”

            “Huh, somehow I knew you’d say this.” A heavy sigh escapes her chapped lips. She needs a new tactic. “Okay, I guess you have your reasons. But if we don’t figure out why we got connected this time, we’re gonna stay like this forever, no? So we have to keep in touch, try to understand each other. That’s the least we can do. Or else, when next time one of us faints out of blue, the other may end up way worse than with a burnt hand.”

            By now she’s learned to read him by his silences. This one is contemplative. As if he was weighing his options.

            “Can I trust you?”

            It’s a good question. Can he? Or, more importantly: Does she want to become a person he can trust, someone to rely on? Is there anything left from her she’s willing to give away? When it comes to her intentions, she’s aware they aren’t all that pure.

            And the weird feeling in her gut, a conviction there’s something wrong with him, hasn’t exactly left her since she met him. He’s been hurt, that much she can tell, but it doesn’t make him incapable of hurting her in turn. And his secrecy and rudeness aren’t exactly helping.

            “Can _I_ trust _you_?” she counters.

            She may be over interpreting, but a side of his mouth tugs up in something resembling a shape of agreement. At least now they’re more or less on the same page. Both wary, both utterly at a loss what to do next.

            “Why don’t we start with your blackout? You owe me this one.”

            He’s not answering for so long MC thinks about dropping the subject altogether.

            “I _was_ sleeping.” He runs his hand through his hair, and she can only imagine how the oddly-coloured strands must stick out in all directions. “It was a _very_ long day. Was tired, literally collapsed onto my bed.”

            “Are you trying to tell me I almost DIED because you have no clock around and just drop dead on your bed when you can’t work any longer?”

            “Am I supposed to apologise for working hard?”

            “Yes! No, I don’t know. Just be reasonable about it and preferably, don’t get me killed, ‘kay?”

            “Mhm.”

            This time, concern in her voice is so obvious to her, she’s afraid he can hear it too. “And try to take better care of yourself, Sleeping Beauty. Doctor’s order.”

            They settle for something resembling a comfortable silence, that is, as comfortable as it may be with Unknown. This time neither of them breaks the connection, and she can still sense the uplifting remnants of his company, weak but _there_ , until they naturally die out on their own.

            MC stretches her hood a little further over her ears, deciding to stall here a moment longer, so that maybe she gets to witness the park light up before the cold evening chases her away for good. Maybe if she’s patient enough, it will be beautiful.

 

* * *

 

 

She knows too much.

            Saeran pops another grape flavoured candy in his mouth and chews on it hungrily. It’s actually the first thing he’s eaten since he woke up and only now, that he’s in the mid of the second pack, his growling stomach starts to shut up.

            But with the missed chat rooms read and the basic needs satisfied, the other nuisances come back like a broken record.

            MC knows too much.

            _There’s no real value in information she has on me_ , Saeran tells himself for the thousandth time this evening. It’s not like she’s gonna march into the Mint Eye and ruin everything he’s done. She ‘knows’ the version of him from a lifetime ago, and it shouldn’t matter, it really doesn’t. The boy who waited for Saeyoung to come back—this pathetic worm, so desperate as to believe in the unbreakable bond with his other half—this person never mattered. He was so weak that nothing’s left of him.

            But at the same time that’s the worst part: there is someone who knows exactly what he was. MC remembers the shameful details which until now have been reserved only to himself, the things that even the Saviour is only roughly aware of.

            He crumples the empty wrapping and throws it across the workroom to the overflowing trash bin, missing.

            It’s kind of funny, though. _She_ killed him. MC tore apart the only thing Saeran still had in common with that brat. Because until their conversation earlier this day, he had nothing more than his common sense to demolish the idea of the twin bond, and his hallucinations from March weren’t even questioned. And now it’s all as clear as a fucking day; it was just _her_. Her all along—not his lovely brother, not a weakness of his own mind.

            Saeran doesn’t completely reject the idea of inducing MC to the Mint Eye; it’s just more tricky now. It’s hard to subordinate a person who knows exactly all the cards you’re holding, and if he doesn’t play it smart, she’ll do more harm than good in the community. On the bright side, it’s easy to invite in someone who’s completely alone. They could help her in the Mint Eye. She would never have to suffer again, and who knows? Maybe, unlike him, she has _a_ future before her? Maybe for her, the Paradise hadn’t been lost even before it came to be?

            But what if she ruins the only thing left he has to do? The bond is becoming more and more unpredictable, and who knows what will come to MC’s mind when she finds out about Luciel? It would be best to get rid of her as fast as possible, but she already knows too much...

            He’s playing with a pack of cigs in his hands. The taste in his mouth is such as if someone put garbage in it when he was asleep. Even the sweets have made little to fix this, and after a moment of thinking, he tosses the cigarettes away just not to make the things even worse.

            He knows how to fix that. The bottle is waiting patiently on his desk; it’s three times as big as the vial he emptied the last time. It manages to be tempting and revolting at the same time. But what is a moment of disgust compared to the following bliss? His bitten nails let out a dull sound each time they meet the desk, but his eyes never leave the greenish liquid.

            He’s done all his work in a record time, but possibly he wasn’t as diligent as he normally is, so on the sound of the opening chat room, he slowly takes his eyes off the bottle. For once, he’s glad the RFA are so talkative, reading their shitty jokes and shallow musings is still better than sweating about all that’s been happening.

            As he noticed earlier, Min-ji acts friendly, if not flirty, with the rest of the group just fine. The current hot topic is preparations for the C&R Christmas Party, and even his little mole acts excitedly as if it didn’t come to her that she’s not invited. The reasons of the RFA aside, it’s very convenient for him that she’s staying in during the corporate ball, but he’s thought that she would put up at least a little fight for his entertainment. Maybe he’s overestimated the power of her grey matter because she still happily serves her new friends with advice as if they weren’t about to leave her locked up to enjoy themselves on the ‘charity’ event. Leaving others behind seems to be the only thing they can do right.

            She’ll be happier here.

            He resolves to check what he missed from the feed when he was asleep, and when the sped up clip of the girl wandering about the place finally reaches the present time, he realises there’s nothing else to do. Without paying much heed to the last frame, he turns away his gaze; her face, all scrunched up over the phone even though the chat room has been long closed, doesn’t seem to be anything worth his attention.

            Mindlessly, he puts a cig between his lips, and after fiddling with it for a while, takes it out. He’s decided on doing the rounds of Mint Eye’s camera feeds just for the sake of it when something else comes to his mind. The insubordination he detected many hours earlier in one of the private chambers.

            Saeran starts up, excited by the prospect of taking the defiant believer down. No longer capable to hold on his thirst for the medicine, and dead set against disappointing the Saviour due to whose will the bottle has been placed in front of the doors to his workroom, he bolts the elixir down. It’s unsurprisingly disgusting, but almost instantly relaxes his muscles and eases his worries. He can’t even grasp why he restrained himself from drinking it a moment ago. He doesn’t have to feel weak and dizzy when it stops working if he takes it regularly enough.

            He springs out of his chair, heading directly to the room, the number of which is still clear in his mind. He doesn’t bother to check on the camera if the believer is inside—which probably is the case, considering the hour. Well, it won’t be a pleasant visit, but they might’ve considered it before violating the rules of their community, and by that disgracing the Saviour and himself.

            His legs are stiff from the lack of movement for a longer time, but fuelled by the growing fury, he rapidly climbs the stairs to the floor where the majority of the private chambers are located.

            Saeran rushes through the corridor where the half-eaten moon is throwing a dull shine on the carpets and wallpapers. He stops to take a better look at the clear sky and the snow-covered pine trees herded on the hills; the view is chopped by the bars on the windows. They had to secure them for the safety reasons because there were cases of the disciples who completely lost their minds and tried to escape through the windows, clearly forgetting which floor they were on. You really have to be out of touch to even think of running away from the Paradise. They would never have to put bars on the windows on _his_ floor were there any windows at all.

            Unceremoniously, Saeran enters the room with a dripping ‘97’painted on the door. He slams the light switch and with a dose of chagrin notices that no one is there. The room is empty. It won’t stop him from taking away the personal items infringing the rules, despite how much more spectacular could it be if the offender were here. With a kick, he fishes out the box from under the bed, the cloth covering it, sliding off in the process.

            Someone really wanted to offend his intelligence by hiding it so sloppily.

            It’s a small wooden chest, not even secured with a padlock. Saeran opens it, already having an idea of what’s inside.

            What he sees is the complete opposite.

            There’s a singular, oddly-shaped bullet on top of the stack of sawdust. Well, that’s even more forbidden.

            Saeran kneels down and takes the bullet out to inspect it. It’s hard to tell for what type of gun it is, but he’s no expert on the subject even if there’s one gun in his desk and the other with him. The bullet lands on the floor with a loud clank when Saeran goes back to burrow through the chest for more of these, or possibly, for the weapon itself.

            Even if there’s nothing more inside, the owner is pretty much fucked as it is. But logically, risking setting up the whole chest just for one thing which could easily fit in the pocket is below even the dumbest of the believers, so impatient to find more, Saeran lifts the chest and empties it on the floor. And surely enough, from underneath all the garbage, one more thing falls down. This one would be nothing too extraordinary if only the circumstances were normal. It’s a photograph, a kind of memorabilia he often finds about disciples. He reaches out to flip it and see what’s on it, but bringing it closer to his eyes, he notices a barely legible scribble at the bottom.

 

_watch out_

           

            Reflexively, he flips it onto the other side.

 

            In the picture there’s no other but himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to immerse more in the story, you can check out the [PLAYLIST](https://open.spotify.com/user/ffkncf5l50zllludl32p920nj/playlist/1isp5eZ6bICMRwHKX7pfqe?si=P_iPE9QLQK-Zqz4KniLQiQ<br%20/>) for it!  
> If you think I don’t post often enough (which is true) you can treat the playlistas a teaser for the next chapters because the songs already set ~the mood~ for the upcoming events.
> 
> Next time: boy talk and investigation in the ME!!

**Author's Note:**

> This story's been hounding me for a while, so I decided to finally write it. It's my first time ever sharing something I've written with others, and it would mean a lot to me if you say something in a comment! I have the outline of the whole plot already written down, so if there's at least one person waiting for another chapter, I will be more than happy to provide~


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